Disclaimer: This post is entirely a fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. BREAKFAST AT BETH'S - THE DEMISE OF AN INDIE EATERY “Good morning, aren’t you glad it is a sunny Saturday?” Beth Fergusson asked – her eyes fixed on her tiny Cash register, staring at it as if it had just disobeyed her command. “Morning to you too Beth - a fine day indeed.” I hurriedly leaped towards the only available table in the restaurant. You ought to be extremely fortunate to find a table at Beth’s on a Saturday morning. Regular customer that I was, I always visited Beth’s small restaurant for breakfast in Framingham, Massachusetts every weekend. She was a friendly woman, in late forties - little extra pounds, a little loud, but the great food made up for it. She remembered all her customers’ name, some were first time visitors, but she made sure she asked their name to remember it the next time. Actually that morning, she recognized me even without taking her eyes off her register. Some acumen you develop after years of experience. She had three waitresses and one cook. They all worked diligently, keeping every customer occupied at earnest. There were morning newspaper on every table, small crayon boxes and a sketchbook for little kids, and some Vogue and People magazines for fashion and gossip lovers. The breakfast changed every time I went there. The menu was same, but the entrees were different every other week. Beth would provide a regular bagel one weekend; and the one with blueberry the other. She served polish sausages some day and used bratwurst the next. Besides, you could always customize your omelette. It was the variation in cooking and the ingredients used that made every customer return to Beth’s. Boston Herald once referred Beth’s as one of the best independent restaurant in the state of Massachussets. Also, there were frequent articles about her pancakes, her muffins and her waffles in Metro. One of the other unconcealed secret about Beth’s success was the overly reasonable cost of eating. She always reiterated that a bigger volume of customers would bring her more profit, not high margins. Besides preserving great camaraderie with her customers, she also had great relationship with her co-workers. And because of her amicable nature, despite being at the tip of the toe half the day, none of her waitresses complained working with her. Natasha, a waitress who was originally from Belarus, had recently called off her engagement with her beau in Hartford .She loved Beth’s so much, did not want to relocate. I never knew about her personal life, no one knew. No one inquired if she were married or had kids or if she was born and raised in New England. If there were men she dated, she kept it clandestine. There was an unspoken rule in her restaurant that the customers should never ask her out, or her waitresses, she made that apparent with her personality and reputation. She was not very pretty, unlike her waitresses, but looked surprisingly appealing at times. I once saw her in Natick Mall; she had worn a halter top and a Capri, a little make up done with a little cleavage shown. That was so unlike her disheveled self in the restaurant. When we ran into each other, she was a little discomfited about the make up, and that she perhaps showed more than intended skin. It was one late August Saturday morning when I jogged my way to Beth’s via Hartford street. The crisp fall air and ruddy maples made the jog more pleasant. Fall had always been my favorite season, and that morning was particularly more beautiful. I admired the canaries that flew between branches and waved at sweaty joggers as I slowly ran through the sidewalk. I gradually accelerated faster as the thought of Beth’s pancakes oozed my bile juices. CLOSED – was the sign on one of the tinted windows of Beth’s. I tried to peer inside the tinted glass window, only to discover it was too translucent to see any activity. Surprised, I sat down on a parking curb waiting if any of the Beth’s associate quickly arrived with numerous apologies. But when no such thing happened over another fifteen minutes – I started worrying. Early morning closure of Beth’s restaurant was as unsettling as entering an empty nightclub on a Friday night in downtown Boston. “Hiya buddy, need a ride?” My neighbor Jim pulled his monster truck in Beth’s parking lot and stuck his head out of the window. He had spotted me squatting in the lot and perhaps thought I was looking for a ride. “What happened to Beth’s” I yelled against the sound of his roaring truck. “Oh – she left for Philly last Tuesday”, he said in absolute indifference, wiping his forehead with a back of his palm, “I heard she had a spat with the property owner. He wanted to lease it to Dunkin’ Donuts. They say they will be opening Dunkin’ here next month”  Last edited: 10-Aug-11 11:04 AM